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New Review: Mahida’s Extra Key to Heaven

This metaphor-driven play explores the dynamic between America and Islam through the lens of characters with less as well as more in common than any of them may think.

New Review: The River Crosses Rivers: Series A

While created by women playwrights of color, what's alluring about these plays isn't an obsession with ethnicity.

New Review: The Provenance of Beauty

A trip through the South Bronx, a part of New York City audiences rarely see. Is gentrification good or not? The author's ambivalence demands that outsiders decide.

New Review: The Retributionists

Daniel Goldfarb's play turns the tale of anti-German vengefulness in the wake of the Holocaust into a barely believable series of melodramatic occurrences.

New Review: Candide Americana

Who can resist a Staten Island ferry crash, Sept. 11, Hurricane Katrina, white supremacists, and E. coli?

New Review: Remission

An inventive if overlong take on schizophrenia told by a schizophrenic as if experiencing connected schizophrenic episodes.

On the Paradoxical, Enigmatic, Exhausted Alexis Soloski

If a critic has been unable to find much to one's liking in 2,000 shows, is it time to do something else?

New Review: Wildflower

It's challenging to identify true beauty among so many weeds.

New Review: The Boychick Affair

There are leggy hip-hop dancers swiveling their hips by the bima, and enough rap to make the Torah sound gangsta.

On the Dangers of Extremism — In Theater Criticism

As if Frank Lloyd Wright designed the Unity Temple in 1904 and returned in 1954 to add a new wing?

I Am Critic, Hear Me Roar, My Brain Is Too Big...

While the critic does get to say, crudely speaking, "this is good, this is bad," it is unquestionably the critic's responsibility to explain why.

Another Problem with Theatre Criticism II

Martin Denton has a great post today on the reasons why theatre critics do what they do. While we're friends and colleagues, Martin wouldn't...
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Herman Cain (and Republicans Unable)

And then there was Jerry Falwell, Jr., with his open pants, evangelical FUPA and his hands veering into prime side-boob territory with -- hey, doesn't she have a name?